Sneak Peak
Grumpy Cowboy Doctor Sneak Peek
Blurb:
She is in a small town to practice horse riding for her audition, when a grumpy cowboy almost runs her over.
Her arm gets fractured and this doctor instantly becomes her enemy.
Guilty, he wants to help her and takes her to the hospital where he practices.
After many failed relationships, she isn’t looking for love. Only for a place to fulfill her dream.
But now, her injury threatens to keep her from the movie tryouts.
She is determined to give herself the best shot she can, despite her broken arm.
He feels guilty and wants to help her. He also finds her endearing.
The hospital policy forbids doctors being friendly with patients.
It doesn’t help that his high class family keeps to a small social circle and snubs outsiders.
He has to decide whether to risk his career.
She has to decide whether to risk her heart with a man whose family rejects her humble upbringing.
Chapter 1
I’m reveling in it being my first day back in Colorado. My mind is buzzing as I think of the audition that’s taking place in a few days and the nostalgia wrapped up in seeing my grandparents and Golden Oaks Ranch after so many years away.
Pursuing an acting career in L.A. has been my life for a while now. I went all the way to the West Coast to chase my dream, so it’s funny how that dream has brought me full circle and back to my grandparents and Golden Oaks.
Outside the airport, I drag my suitcase behind me. I am determined to bypass the airport cab drivers and their ridiculously inflated cab fees. The mid-afternoon sun is at its peak and bathes everything in warmth and heat.
My curly red hair is tied up in a messy bun, and my sunglasses dangle from my mouth as I stick one of the handles between my teeth. It has always been my bad habit to chew on the handles of my sunglasses.
I rifle through my purse for my bottle of water. I’m so thirsty I could drain an entire lake.
My phone begins to ring, causing me to abandon my search for water to dig the vibrating device out of my back pocket. My purse remains wedged between my ribs and my elbow.
Who is it?I wonder. My eyes narrow at the screen in speculation as I swipe right. I hold the phone to my ear, take the sunglasses out of my mouth, and perch them on my head.
“Bethel, if you think you’re going to get this role just because your sister is the one who wrote the script, then you are sorely mistaken.” A cold female voice filters through the phone speakers.
My entire face scrunches up in confusion.
Huh? I wonder.
“Who is this?” I ask.
If this is a prank call from my friends in L.A., I’m too hot and thirsty for such frivolities.
The individual on the phone ignores my question and continues to speak. Obviously, she’s someone who likes the sound of her own voice.
“You have no talent. This role is mine. You’d be better off going back to starring in phone commercials and being an extra on sets in low-budget movies. The limelight isn’t for you.”
Her smug, downgrading tone pickles me, and my anger bubbles up like the surface of boiling water in a pot. I stop smack dab in the middle of the road, and my knuckles tighten on the handle of my suitcase—a woman ready to stand up for her rights. Something in the back of my mind tells me this is not the place to stop, but my anger is louder and more insistent than the voice of reason.
I respond to her, “Okay, listen here, sissy. I’m guessing you’re some self-entitled individual who thinks she can bully her way into getting things by harassing everyone else.” My voice is rising with each syllable.
I scoff to show I don’t take this caller seriously.
“If you have doubts about getting the role, then maybe you should spend less time threatening others and more time putting in the work,” I snap out. Then I press on the end call button and humph with self-satisfaction.
I told her off good,I think proudly, a ridiculous smile plastered on my face. If there were an audience, I’m pretty sure I would get a standing ovation. Alas, there’s no one around to witness my abundant eloquence.
I came to audition for a role in a movie that my sister wrote. This part is true. Ariel has no involvement in the casting process for the film, though. The notion that I could get cast in the role due to nepotism is entirely mistaken. Nonetheless, it does make me think.
Will others feel the same way? Especially the casting director? Will he think that because my sister wrote the script, I’m not fit to act in the movie?
I shake my head to dislodge the negative thoughts.
“Some people just love to cook up conspiracies where there are none,” I mutter.
I heave out a sigh and continue to walk. My black heels click on the road. I stare at my phone screen.
The number wasn’t hidden, and the area code is one from here in Colorado, which means this crazy individual is close by. I shuffle along distractedly without looking left or right. I’m wondering if I should block the number or save it on my phone, just in case…
A loud honk startles me out of my reverie, causing me to look up in alarm. The hairs on my arm stand up, and my heart jumps into my throat at how close the headlights of a sleek black car are to me. The smell of asphalt burning permeates the air as the driver tries to brake to a stop before reaching me.
I feel frozen in place. My body refuses to move. My legs are rooted to the ground like they have been cast in concrete. The driver swerves to the side just as my body finally obeys, and I jump aside like a stuntman in an action movie.
In my mind, I picture myself executing a perfect tuck and roll to avoid the car. Then I would leap back to my feet in one fluid move. After, I’d dust myself off effortlessly and yell at the driver.
But, unfortunately, reality plays out very differently from what I would have liked to have happened.
As I move, the heel of my shoe breaks off, and I painfully crash to the ground on my left arm. My glasses fly off from where they are perched on my forehead. My phone flies out of my hand and skitters across the ground.
“Oh!” I cry out in a voice riddled with pain and shock. They make these things look easy in the movies.
“Is this how you chose to greet me today, Colorado?” I groan with misery.
Luckily, I didn’t hit my head on the ground. I start checking my body to see if anything is broken. The arm I landed on is throbbing painfully.
My train of thought quickly trails into silence as the door of the black car opens, and feet encased in patent leather Oxford shoes step out.
My eyes travel up from the shoes and across a gray suit until I gaze into the face of the most handsome man I have ever set my eyes on.
Wow!!!
“Are you alright?” the man asks, a look of concern on his face. “Let me help you up.” He stretches out his hand to assist me, but I can’t move. I’m frozen. I am partially in shock about what just happened and partially speechless at the sight of him.
“Huh?” I answer back, still in awe of the attractive fellow who drives so recklessly.
Of all the vices to have, rough driving isn’t so awful,I think to myself. I could live with that. Seat belts exist for a reason. I’m not entirely sure why I’m making excuses for him or fantasizing about going for joyrides with him.
“Miss? Are you alright?” he asks again, his tone getting a little impatient.
“Uh-huh,” I nod. My eyes are still kind of glazed over. I’m looking at the man’s nails now. They are blunt and short. And every time he moves, the cuffs of his suit ride up a little to show his wrist.
He straightens up with an utterly perplexed expression on his face. I can’t say I blame him. I know I’m spewing nonsensical slurs and communicating in grunts like a cavewoman.
But for crying out loud, he can’t expect any woman to function normally under the full blast of those harsh, brutal lines on his handsome face. If he were to star in a movie, he’d be the brooding dark love interest of the main female character. He’d do well if he played the part of a tortured artist or billionaire.
A straight nose, steely gray eyes, a face with a timeless quality that looks like it could be anywhere between twenty and forty. Broad shoulders under an immaculate dark gray suit. Tousled hair a warm shade of mahogany.
He’s also staring at my face, and it makes me feel all warm and tingly inside. A blush stains my cheeks, and I wonder what I look like to him. I always dress stylishly enough, but my white sundress is simple, and my gold necklace feels like a cheap trinket when I spot the heavy gold embossed Rolex watch on his left wrist.
Everything about him exudes astonishing wealth and authority. My eyes dart to the car behind him. A Porsche.
Yep. Way out of my league.
Then I find my voice. “I’m fine, thank you. I’m kind of surprised. You appeared out of nowhere,” I say, trying to keep my voice light and breezy. An annoying fancy debutante accent is forcing its way into my tongue, even though I’m as far from posh and classy as a mouse is an elephant. I blame it on the sun and my present state of dehydration.
“Me? No. You appeared out of nowhere,” he points out.
“No, I didn’t,” I retort. I sound like a mollified housewife from Kentucky.
I do this sometimes when I’m nervous: I switch characters without thinking. Either I suddenly acquire a fake accent, or my mannerisms change to a character role I have played. I blame it on the years of acting.
People sometimes take offense and think I’m making a jest. I stopped trying to explain it a long time ago.
Nowadays, I just flow with it. Once I start as a character with someone, I never switch back. There’s a bistro owner in New York who still thinks I’m related to the British royal family because I once slipped into an English accent when I was annoyed by a customer in line.
I finally take the stranger’s outstretched hand, and he helps me up. His palms are warm and dry.
When I stand up, I feel myself sway a little. I automatically take a few steps back to meet the gaze of the man in front of me.
Why does he have to be so tall?
My left arm feels numb and also throbs rather painfully. I grimace as I look up at the man in front of me.
He studies me closely, looking faintly exasperated now. His lips are pressed into a thin line, and his heavy, brooding brows are drawn together.
“What were you thinking talking on your phone and walking so carelessly onto the road like that?” the man asks.
His voice shocks me. It is deep and vibrates in a bass timbre. It is perfect for reciting poems under the starry night sky on a picnic date in Florence, Italy. Sadly, it is also just right for scolding, and that is what he is currently using it for.
What crawled into his pants and died?I wonder.
His face wears an arrogant expression. He looks like he’s dealing with a troublesome toddler he found playing outside in the mud and dirtying up her dress. My hackles rise. I don’t know if it is because of my disappointment that he isn’t all Mr. Nice Guy or because I’m still shaken from the phone call I just received reminding me of all my insecurities about my acting career.
I glower up at him as righteous rage fuels my system.
I’ll cut him down and put him in his place, I say to myself, indignation powering me. My spine straightens, and I arch my eyebrows. I hope I don’t look like a startled poodle.
“What was I thinking using my phone while crossing the road? What were you doing speeding on a road you very well know is full of pedestrians?” I throw back.
I enjoy the faint look of surprise that comes over his face. His eyebrows raise in an almost comical manner. He’s obviously not used to people talking back to him.
“You can’t be seriously trying to say that this is my fault?” he sputters out indignantly.
“Yes, it is. You could’ve gotten me killed!” I fire back, still enjoying this righteous rage very much.
Is this how people feel when they refuse to take note of their own faults in their arguments? It feels kind of good.
He grinds his teeth; under his annoyed look, his face pales slightly.
“I didn’t see you until the last minute. If you’d looked before trying to cross the road, you’d have seen me coming,” he says. I detect faint notes of defensiveness from him.
“I’m the one who was just on the ground, mister. You don’t get to throw blame in my direction,” I say.
I remember with distaste my failed attempt at diving out of the way of his car in a spectacularly heroic fashion.
“I fail to see why you’re so much on the defensive,” he retorts.
At the back of my mind, I know he’s right. I was too distracted staring at my phone screen to look where I was going. But I do not need a reprimand reminding me how thoughtless I can be sometimes. It makes me angry.
“I don’t need this right now,” I growl and try to adjust my purse strap. The moment I try to move my left arm, I release a sharp cry of pain.
“What’s wrong?” the man demands in a fierce voice. He lunges forward, extending his arm, but he stops short of touching me. “Let me see that arm.”
“No. You stay back!” I snarl. I am still pissed at him even though I like the whiff of his musky cologne that drifts into my nostrils.
I try gingerly to lift my arm away from my body, and tears sting my eyes at the throbbing pain that shoots up from my wrist to my forearm. They say women generally have a high pain tolerance, but that’s not true in my case. I turn into a big bawling baby who can only be assuaged with cookies, ice cream, and a cold compress.
“I think it may be fractured,” the man says. He sounds so sure of himself. Is he an expert on fractures? I wouldn’t be surprised. With the way he drives, he probably fractures his arm, like, twice a year. His doctors must love him.
I give him a piercing look. He’s much closer now and is scrutinizing my arm.
“Do you feel pain anywhere else? You can’t lift it right?” he asks.
“Who are you?” I ask, completely thrown off by his sudden interest in my injured arm.
He looks up at my face, his eyes meeting mine in firm, assured eye contact.
“I’m Jeremy King. I’m a doctor. You need to have that arm checked out immediately.”
I stare back blankly for a few moments. My only thought is, Oh, a doctor. Of course, he’s a doctor. It just makes sense. So, he is an expert with broken arms, after all.
“Come with me. I’ll take you to my hospital and make sure you get the best care possible,” Jeremy offers.
I frown, shaking the butterflies and fairy dust out of my head. Handsome or not, he’s still the most arrogant man I’ve ever met.
“No thanks,” I say, resolute in my stubbornness. If my injured arm had a voice, it would probably have yelled at me to accept the help. I’m pretty sure it just throbbed violently in protest. But I’m in a vindictive mood.
Jeremy’s lips thin again.
“Now isn’t the time to be stubborn, young lady. You’ll need to get that checked out. I’m offering.”
I remain determinedly rooted to my spot on the ground.
“I don’t even know you. I can’t just get into your car. What if this whole thing was planned, and you’re trying to kidnap me?” I protest. My voice is shaky as I hold my arm stiffly by my side.
He heaves a frustrated sigh, and his hand goes to his inner pocket. I flinch reflexively. My mind goes wild. A gun? A Taser? He looks so stern, he may as well fish out a report for me to go to the principal’s office.
Jeremy, the doctor, gives me an odd look as he withdraws his hand from his suit pocket, holding a leather wallet in his strong fingers. He fishes around and pulls out his business card.
“There you go. I really am a doctor. Now will you please let me help you?”
I give the card a speculative glance. I spot Jeremy King, M.D. amidst other initials and titles that make no sense to me.
“You can’t even admit that you were at fault for almost running me over. Why should I go with you?” I say to him, surprising myself.
Jeremy King looks at me with dismay, surprise, amusement, and irritation. The varied emotions are all so evident on his face.
It’s like I can read him like a book. Ha! We could open a show. Bethel the Mind Reader with a special guest: the surly Dr. Jeremy King! We would be an instant hit.My imaginative mind is at work.
“You should come with me because your arm needs immediate medical attention. My admitting fault won’t heal your arm.” Jeremy speaks slowly, like he can’t believe he has to explain this to me.
“But it’ll make me feel better,” I respond sourly. My voice sounds silly even to me. I must have hit my head and not realized it.
You’re in pain, and this stranger is kind enough to offer to take you to the hospital. Yet you choose to behave like a petulant child?
I don’t know what’s come over me. For some strange reason, I want to win one over the effortlessly composed and put-together man in front of me. Jeremy King. What kind of fancy name is that? It sounds so posh and elegant.
“So, what exactly do you want me to do then?” Jeremy asks, looking thoroughly befuddled.
I shrug.
“I don’t know. Apologize to me?”
Stop being so arrogant and smug, my mind reprimands me.
He releases a short bark of laughter laced with incredulity.
“You can’t be serious? Is who was right and who was wrong really that important right now?” he queries.
I nod like this is a well-established fact.
“Yes,” I say.
Jeremy, who looks like he’s a second away from having a conniption all on my account, pinches the bridge of his nose as his mouth lets out something like a pained laugh. I smile innocently, batting my eyelashes.
“What exactly do you want me to say?” he asks.
“Say I was right and you were wrong. An apology for almost killing me would be nice.”
“Fine, I was right and you were wrong.” He says this with a straight face. I narrow my eyes at his deliberate miscommunication of my demand. His lips twitch slightly as though he is holding back a laugh. It makes his tough fa?ade soften just a tiny fraction and endears me to this grumpy-faced doctor just a little bit. My instincts already tell me I can trust him.
I harrumph and toss my hair over my shoulders, pretending like I could walk to the hospital if I so chose. In reality, I feel like I want to crouch on the ground in a fetal position and cry from the pain I experience when I move my arm a little.
“Fine. Take me to the hospital then,” I say, giving Jeremy an evil glare even though my insides swoop with delight. I nearly swoon as he assists me into his car, my fingers digging into the deliciously sturdy muscles of his arms and shoulders. Not a bad trade. One injured arm for one handsome doctor. I wonder what would happen if both my arms were injured…
Although I have decided to get into his car with him, I am not sure about trusting a complete stranger.
I really hope I’m not making a mistake, I think as we speed down the road.
Chapter 2
We are in my car driving to the hospital. My new, unexpected passenger is really something else. I can’t believe she got me to say she was right and I was at fault, even though the truth is glaringly obvious. She came right out of nowhere.
One second, I was driving toward the hospital for my afternoon rounds. The next, I had to jam both legs on my brakes and avoid running into a redhead with sunglasses perched on her head. I’m not a reckless driver, but today was one of those days that would have made it seem like I was.
I could have really hurt her. Guilt seizes my lungs. Another life was almost lost because of me. Maybe I should really quit my job while I’m ahead, I think.
Memories from all those months ago blur through my mind—memories of when I nearly lost the most important patient I had ever cared for. I start to get that tremor in my hands again, and I force myself to practice the breathing exercises I learned from my therapist to calm myself down.
I notice the girl seated next to me is observing me closely, and I look away to avoid her gaze. A few long seconds pass uneasily before I catch a glimpse of her turning away, seemingly satisfied that there is nothing wrong with me. I get the feeling that she has returned to focusing on her own injury.
The rest of the drive to the hospital is silent. The girl looks out the window resolutely, refusing to look in my direction again. I make a conscious effort to pay attention to the road, but I find myself stealing discreet glances at her profile. My knuckles grip the steering wheel tighter. She is beautiful. Absolutely drop-dead gorgeous.
Long red hair tied up into a messy bun with a few escaped strands grazing the sides of her jaw so lightly I feel it must tickle her a little bit.
But she’s young—too young for me,I remind myself. Youth and innocence shine from her so graciously while I feel more like an old mule. Still, I can’t stop looking at her.
We get to Crescent Hospital, a sprawling modern building with seven floors. I park in my reserved spot indicated by a small black rectangular sign with my name painted in gleaming white block letters.
She either doesn’t take notice of the sign or chooses to refrain from commenting. Either way, it is a relief to me. I don”t want to have to talk about myself or my career just yet. I’m careful with her.
We get out of the car, and she follows me to the entrance. I hold the door open for her. After we enter, I place a hand on her lower back and guide her through the well-lit hallways. I take her straight to the radiology department for an immediate X-ray while I call in a favor from a nurse assistant at the desk to bring me the necessary forms.
Minutes later, she breathes a sigh of relief as the X-ray shows just a small fracture.
I immediately call for a splint to be brought, and I put a cast on her forearm with as much gentleness as the procedure can spare. She winces a little.
Afterward, we sit in the waiting area. I hand her the forms to fill out, along with a pen. She lifts the clipboard gingerly and tries to write with the hand that is encased in a cast.
She must be left-handed, then. Once again, guilt washes through me.
“Easy there. Let me just fill it out for you,” I offer in a kind voice.
She looks embarrassed but allows me to take the papers back from her. The tips of our fingers linger just a little as they brush against each other.
I clear my throat gruffly and focus on the papers.
“Name?” I ask, clicking on the ballpoint pen.
“Bethel Abraham.”
“Bethel Abraham,” I repeat, enjoying the thrill of putting a name on the girl in front of me.
Her pouty rosebud lips form words as she gives out the rest of her information.
“You’re an attending physician here?” she asks after a while.
Her question surprises me.
“Yeah…I’m a surgeon. How did you know that term?” I ask.
She smirks.
“I played a few roles in some hospital drama series. I picked up quite a few terminologies and medical slang.”
A few roles…so she’s an actress, then. I like piecing the puzzles together from the tidbits of information she offers up.
“That’s interesting,” I say.
She beams at me, and my breath is stolen from my lungs.
I realize with a sudden shock that I want to ask her to dinner. The words burn on the tip of my tongue, even though such an invitation would go against medical ethics. I have attended to her now, which makes her my patient. Before I can say anything, though, we are interrupted.
“Jeremy?” The familiar voice of Lauren Peterson calls out to me. I turn in the direction her voice comes from.
Lauren approaches. Her doctor’s coat is worn over a pink blouse and white slacks. Her platinum blonde hair is done up in an elegant chignon.
“There you are. I’ve been wondering why you haven’t turned up yet,” she says as she reaches me. The scent of her expensive perfume fills up the space.
“I had an emergency to attend to,” I respond.
Her eyes flicker briefly to where Bethel is seated next to me.
“Oh, is that so?” she asks, her voice subdued yet faintly challenging.
I give her a stern look.
“Yes,” I respond.
“What happened?” she asks.
The tone she uses irritates me. She seems to think she has the right to know every single detail of my life. I know she’s a valuable and indispensable presence in the hospital, and we’ve worked together for years. However, I don’t like it when she crosses the line and tries to step into my personal life.
Also, there’s the insistent and annoying aspect of Mother constantly inviting Lauren to family dinners and throwing hint after hint that she would like to see me and Lauren together. But I have never viewed Lauren as anything more than a work colleague.
I am thinking of the best way to dismiss her without being overly rude when Bethel pipes up suddenly.
“He nearly ran me over with his car.” She says this with a bright smile like it’s the best piece of news she’s ever had the pleasure of sharing.
I glare at her, but she gives me the sweetest, most innocent look and says,
“What? It’s true, isn’t it?”
I groan and turn back to Lauren, who arches a perfectly drawn eyebrow at me.
“How, pray, did this happen?” she asks.
“I was distracted; she came out of nowhere,” I explain through gritted teeth. I am annoyed that I have to clarify and defend myself.
Bethel elbows me in the ribs, causing me to look in her direction. Her eyes are chocolate brown, with flecks of gold scattered through her irises. Everything about her face is fascinating to look at. I find myself utterly captivated.
“I thought we agreed that I was right and you were wrong,” she reminds me.
“It doesn’t change the fact that you came out of nowhere,” my wry tone counters.
“It does,” she insists. I can’t tell if she is teasing me to amuse herself or if the painkillers are making her a bit loopy. They have that effect on some people.
”I only agreed to your absurd request because I was desperate to get you off the ground and to the hospital. Now that I”ve accomplished that, I see no need to continue to pretend,” I point out.
Bethel”s face is full of challenge. Definitely the painkillers, I think to myself.
”I don”t care if you crossed your fingers behind your back and whispered ”not” under your breath after each sentence as you agreed to be at fault. All I know is, you admitted to it.”
”Under duress,” I point out, humoring her.
I’m not going to point out to her or Lauren that she is thinking recklessly because of the painkillers I have given her. No need to add fuel to her fire.
Bethel scoffs, then says, ”Don”t be silly. I didn”t put you under duress.”
”I beg to differ,” I reply drily.
Bethel makes a frustrated sound and sticks her tongue out at me. I resist the urge to reach out and trap the pink organ between my fingers.
Instead, I shake my head and turn to Lauren.
“Luckily for us both, she only obtained a fracture on her left arm when she fell to the ground,” I say to Lauren.
Lauren sniffs unhappily. She”s been watching our entire exchange with a slight pinch to her mouth like she just swallowed something nasty. Her tone is tart as she says,
“Jeremy, we need you in the ICU. We have patients to see and follow. So perhaps it’s time to send your young friend here on her way.”
I wince a little. I’ve been so caught up enjoying my time with Bethel that I forgot I’m supposed to be on a twelve-hour shift. I turn to Bethel. She has her eyes narrowed at Lauren, and there”s a bit of an oddness to her expression. I wonder what that is about.
“Do you have anyone you can call to come pick you up?” I ask Bethel.
She purses her lips and considers this for a moment.
“I would call my grandparents, but my phone screen is toast.” She holds up the phone for me to see the scraggly web cracks spread across the glass surface. The shattered screen reflects only a dull, flickering white light and nothing else.
“I’m sorry. I’ll get you a new one,” I respond. I make a mental note to do that as soon as I can. It is my fault the phone is broken.
Bethel shrugs nonchalantly and puts the phone back in her purse.
“It’s alright. I guess I’ll just hail a cab.”
She gets to her feet and throws her purse over her shoulder. She casts a brief, surreptitious glance at Lauren, and her eyes dim a little.
”Well, I guess I”ll take my leave then. Thanks for this, I guess,” Bethel says, gesturing toward the cast with her right hand.
“Your luggage is still in my car,” I remind her.
Her face crumples.
“Oh yeah.” She looks down at her arm in the cast and makes a face.
“Can I just come get that later? I really just want to get home now.”
Poor thing, she must be exhausted. She got off a flight that had lasted hours and went straight to the hospital. I note the tiredness in her frame.
“Yeah. I understand,” I say.
We stand close now. Bethel leans forward awkwardly. She seems unsure whether to hug me or shake my hand. I tense in anticipation. She finally decides on a tiny wave and walks toward the front entrance.
I feel strangely bereft watching her walk away from me. I realize I don’t want her to go just yet. It’s strange. I feel like our time together is far from over. Her footsteps are sure, but her shoulders are hunched forward.
I can’t just let her leave.
I turn to Lauren. “Can you cover for me for just, like, an hour?”
Lauren gives me a resentful look.
“Why?” she asks.
There it is again, that tone. Like Lauren’s my watchdog or something.
“Can you?” I repeat.
Lauren sighs and flicks an invisible speck of dirt from her finger. She looks me dead in the eye.
“I don’t think going after her is a good idea, Jeremy.” Her tone is crisp and full of blatant disapproval.
I stare her down, my face turning into an icy mask. I straighten to my full height and give her a condescending scowl.
“I wasn’t aware I asked for your opinion, Lauren,” I say in a calm, measured voice, trying to suppress my fury. ”You watch your place. That we’re friendly to each other doesn’t mean you should take advantage of the leeway I allow you. You’re still my subordinate.”
Her mouth opens in gaping shock for a second. I see hurt flicker in her eyes before she recovers.
“I’m sorry, Jeremy. I just—” she starts to say in a contrite voice.
I refuse to listen to anything she has to say. I stride away, following the direction Bethel walked in. I hurry through the glass doors of the hospital”s main entrance.
Sure enough, I spot Bethel standing some distance away on the sidewalk, her white dress making her look like an angel, breathtakingly beautiful and out of this world. She rubs her injured arm with her right hand and swivels her head from side to side, scanning the busy road.
As I hurry over with measured steps, I realize that I”m not even sure what I’m going to say. However, it”s too late. My feet keep moving of their own volition until I”m close enough for Bethel to hear me.
“Hi,” I call out.
Bethel turns with a confused frown. I can tell when she realizes it’s me because a gigantic smile engulfs her face. I love that smile. I want to run my finger across the tiny dent her dimple makes on her flawless cheek.
“Jeremy. What are you doing here?” she asks in surprise. Then she pauses and gives me a speculative look. “Did you think I couldn’t call a cab by myself? Am I that young?”
I scrunch up my nose. Bethel’s trying to make a point, but I can’t, for the love of me, figure out where the jab is coming from or aimed at.
“I have no idea what you are going on about,” I say.
She rolls her eyes and turns back to scanning the street for a cab.
“Your girlfriend doesn’t seem to like me,” she finally says.
I can’t help but chuckle at her grumpy demeanor.
“My girlfriend? Who? Lauren?” I ask, amused.
Bethel sniffles and tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. She has the air of someone who is putting on a front of casual nonchalance.
“Is that the ice queen’s name?” she asks.
I laugh and come to stand beside her. The top of her head barely reaches my shoulder. That isn’t uncommon for me. I got my father’s height.
“She isn’t my girlfriend,” I inform her.
Bethel shrugs, “If you say so.”
Is that jealousy I hear in her voice? Why does it please me? I shove my hands into my pockets and head straight for the kill.
“I thought about it, and I decided I would take you home. I should take you home,” I say.
She makes a sound from the back of her throat. “Really? That’s nice of you. But I wouldn’t want to be a bother.”
“I insist. It’s the least I can do,” I respond. “Besides, apparently I’m the one at fault here and you’re completely blameless.”
I raise my eyebrows meaningfully as I say this. Bethel has the grace to look abashed, her cheeks staining a fascinating shade of red.
“I’m sorry about that. I know I was wrong to have been crossing the road without looking,” Bethel admits in a demure voice. “I was just…distracted, I guess.”
I make a show of appearing shocked.
“Wow. A concession from you? Did you hit your head while making your way out of the building?”
She harrumphs and gives me a smug look.
“Don’t sound so surprised, Dr. King. I can be the bigger person sometimes.”
“You called me Dr. King,” I say, a little surprised. I dislike the formality in that title. Especially coming from her. I want to hear her say my name instead.
“It’s your name, isn’t it?” she asks with a coy smile. She’s fully aware of the effect she is having on me. She’s flirting with me. And I’m flirting back. I shouldn’t be doing this, though. It’s evident I’m way older than her; the judgmental look on Lauren’s face from earlier on was enough to tell me the age gap between us is gaping and obvious.
My plan to ask her to dinner springs forth again stubbornly from the recesses of my mind. However, before I can say anything, Bethel perks up suddenly and waves a cab down. The yellow vehicle pulls to a stop in front of us.
“Wait. I thought we agreed I would be taking you home?” I say, rushing forward despite myself to help her open the door.
She pats my shoulder gratefully before she gets in.
“Yeah…No. You have patients to see, doctor. You’re needed here,” she says.
“My name is Jeremy,” I say as the car starts moving away from the curb.
“I know,” she calls back, and I laugh and shake my head.
“How do I find you?” I ask her. I’m walking a little faster now because the cab is speeding up.
“I stay at—”
Her voice is drowned out by the wailing of the ambulance siren that screeches to a stop in front of the hospital.
“What?” I yell out, but the cab is far down the street.
How do I find you?I wonder.
For a wild second, fear grips me that I might never see her again. I light up when I remember her paperwork. She lives on a ranch if I remember correctly.
“Bethel Abraham,” I breathe out her name. It feels like warmth and her flowery scent.
I’ll find you, Bethel.
Despite our age gap, I want to be with her. I just don’t know how yet.……